


Forget Me Not

by Grey_Daughter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Comeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Or Is he?, Pining Derek, Scent Kink, Sex Toys, clueless stiles, mentions of bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grey_Daughter/pseuds/Grey_Daughter
Summary: Derek should know better than to taunt Stiles. 
“Forget-me-nots, Stiles? Really?” 
So it does not come as a surprise when he gets a fawn plushy with ice skates on its shaky legs. 
“You did not seem to like the forget-me-nots,” Stiles explains, “So I got you this. You can hug it when you miss me, and no one will know.” 
He does make good use of the fawn. Truly, he does.  
Just not exactly the way he thinks Stiles intended, when giving it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It was supposed to be smut. It became something else. 
> 
> Thanks to VivyPotter, who encouraged me to post it. Writing in a language that is not your own is a slow and complicated process. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Single Chapter

Graduation comes to the teenagers in the Pack not as abruptly as one might think; once the new Hale pack was established in Beacon Hills, monsters-of-the-week became monsters-of-the-month, and Derek will forever remember with fondness the fifty-two days of peace they had during the summer before Senior Year. Its entirety passes with mock tests, real tests and constant reminders from teachers to make every minute count, and no pack meets go without a mention of where they will be, a year from now, and discussion of apps for instant communication. 

Lydia is the first to receive her acceptance letter. It comes so fast from Massachusetts that everyone jokes it came with Emergency Mail. She’s got a full-ride scholarship to MIT, the only university she bothered applying (“Harvard is overrated, and as much as I love you, Jackson, I can do better than Boston”) and her smug smile is only shadowed by Stiles’, once he realizes that, with financial aid and Derek’s collaboration (“It’s called an investment, Stiles”), he can take his place at Stanford to double major in Psychology and Criminology. 

The wolves stick closer to home, no more than an hour drive each way, all UC Davis and community colleges, so full moons can be spent together along with any emergency meets and puppy piles. Jackson argues that he is a wolf, when this point is raised; Stiles is quick to point out that Derek’s beta he may be, but it is Lydia who whips him into shape, and his laugh when the couple blushes makes Derek’s heart skip a beat. 

This, really, is what the problem is really about. 

Once it became obvious that Lydia was the smartest cookie in the class (one does not jump from fluctuating top 20 to the single best student in the space of a summer) being smart was suddenly cool. The confidence that came from that act alone turned Stiles from a rambling, good-looking human to jail-bait. 

The sheriff’s jail-bate son, no less.

He makes no move even after Stiles is legal. The teen is an October baby with his full senior year ahead and Derek would hate to see that sharp mind stuck in Beacon Hills because of a relationship that might or might not work. The alpha has dedicated his entire self to someone, once, and she repaid him by turning his family to ashes. 

So, when Stiles walks on him when he is wearing nothing but underwear and promptly trips over nothing, Derek only remarks: “Like a baby deer on skates.” 

Still, they trade barbs with a growing edge of flirting that sometimes comes dangerously close to tip off. Such as the occasion when Stiles comes to the pack’s movie night reeking of cologne to try (and fail) to hide the smell of sex that seems to radiate from his every pore and Derek scowls, bothered he cannot say anything other than do me, until he manages to identify what the scent is supposed to be beneath all the chemicals. 

“Forget-me-nots, Stiles? Really?” 

Stiles allows his eyes to widen and look as innocent as possible before replying: “So you can remember me better, Der-bear.” 

At that, the Pack bursts into laughter. Derek’s sexual tension vanishes like a magic trick, only to return as anger when all the teens head home and the thought finally sinks that Stiles is definitely no longer a virgin. Not only that, but that satisfaction radiating from him along with barely visible come spread over him skin shows how much he enjoys not being one. 

His wolf growls and asks to maim whoever is responsible for Derek’s unhappiness. He attempts to soothe it, but each argument frustrates him to a degree that Derek falls into a restless sleep with his claws and fangs popped out. 

_

The pack throws a goodbye party at the end of July, two days before Lydia and Jackson take a plane to Massachusetts. They are only expected there by the end of August, but the banshee argues about their need of a wardrobe suited to the biting cold, compact furniture to make her side of the dorm livable by her standards and all the accessories that come with it.

They all trade gifts and there are enough tears that it seems the teens have forgotten only two of them are leaving, and that even then, their families’ background makes it possible for Jackson and Lydia to hop on a plane every weekend, if they so wish. Derek suspects, however, that the next they will see of the couple will be Thanksgiving. A werewolf Jackson might be, but he often still acts as a kanima in the way he dedicates himself fully to a single person. 

As long as he controls himself, Derek is fine with it. And if he doesn’t, Derek trusts Lydia to rein him in. 

Apparently, the pack has been saving money for months in order to buy him a basic laptop so they can Skype without him having to awkwardly hold his phone in a way his face shows. The background is a photograph of their last puppy pile, and a single file shares space with the basic programs. 

Twilight Saga, its name reads. 

“Best cover ever,” Stiles explains, “Anyone who sees it will be too busy either fangirling or judging you to click on it.” 

Inside is the bestiary, completely digitalized by Boyd and Erica, translated into Modern English by Lydia and with its drawings scanned by Jackson’s super 3in1 printer. There is a list of herbs provided by Deaton through Scott that will come in hand, sooner or later. Allison makes a compilation of the type of wolfsbane preferred by each hunter family she is aware of. Isaac presents his Excel spreadsheet of every supernatural being in town, their species and a simple algorithm that shows their chance of attacking for each situation. 

Stiles is the only one who has not directly contributed for what is inside the laptop. Derek knows that not only the idea was probably his, but that he nagged each member of the pack to get their work done before the deadline, tidy and accurate. 

So he does not expect the shit-eating grin that covers the mole-covered boy’s face, and if there is ever an indication Derek should run, this is it.

“You will get yours later, Sourwolf,” he says with a wink, and Derek knows this is a joke, it has to be a joke, the entire pack knows it, but his wolf rumbles contently inside his chest and for a moment, he allows himself to imagine Stiles all naked but a giant red bow wrapped around his dick, and him kneeling before it, unwrapping the bow with his teeth. 

Derek snaps out of it when Peter, who for the whole time was lurking around the stairs, throws him a knowing look. Awkwardly, the alpha readjusts himself in his seat and ignores his uncle’s snickers. 

Goodbyes are only finished after midnight, five pizzas and two movies. It is a relief when Derek can hear no heartbeat other than his own, Isaac having a sleepover at Scott’s and even Peter out looking for a good cut of meat. 

There is nothing good on TV, his laptop requires internet to function and it is too close to the full moon for Derek to just fall asleep. Instead, he walks to where Stiles usually sits and finds one of his dreadful plaid shirts on it. The human has taken to using it everywhere, arguing that if any blood is getting near him, than it should at least give him the excuse to buy something better. 

Perhaps Stiles has grown tired of waiting for a new creature to attack, Derek ponders. The tree stump above the Nemeton has been removed, a yew tree taking its place and thriving, growing its branches in all directions and reaching towards the sky in an impressive speed. 

In the end, Derek does not look a gift horse in the mouth, and a single inhale once the shirt is on his hands has his dick filling. He walks to his bed trying to keep a clear head, but the shirt has probably been worn several times after its latest wash and where humans would be disgusted, Derek is delighted with the Stiles-ness coming from it. 

With a lube coated hand, he closes his eyes and remembers the image of Stiles with a red bow, thinks of the weight of his dick on his tongue, the feel of it in the back of his throat, the musky smell of his crotch, where Derek would bury his nose in if his gag reflex was non-existent. 

Stiles probably does not stop babbling even during sex, but a bead of pre-come wells at the tip of Derek’s dick at the thought of how loud he might be. With a groan, Derek speeds up his right hand and this time thinks of Stiles sucking his cock, that obscene mouth stretched around his length, bobbing his head and occasionally humming, popping it out to lick it nice and shiny with spit and moving onto Derek’s balls, sucking one while keeping eye contact with those huge whiskey eyes. 

Each lungful of Stiles’ shirt makes more pre-come appear until he is continuously dripping, balls drawn tight and ready to burst. Derek wonders how long Stiles would be able to hold it, if he bites his lower lip to stop from coming and his groan of relief when he finally explodes, painting Derek’s mouth white in long, thick ropes of come. 

He would curse while doing it, Derek thinks, a huge string of fucks with his name here and there, said with a rough voice while Stiles’ dick still twitches while Derek keeps sucking, milking his climax to the last drop. 

He lets go. His orgasm washes over him like a wave that comes and goes, never stopping, pleasure so intense that he bites Stiles’ shirt to keep a shout in while his hips thrust into the air, pumping a load of come into his chest and stomach, near pitiful whines leaving his mouth after each rope shot, until he is spent a thoroughly sated. 

Derek does not know how long it takes until his senses come back completely, but after wiping himself and drinking a glass of water, he notices how much his saliva has mingled with Stiles’ scent, and how good it feels. Were he any less sated, he has no doubt that his dick would start to harden again. 

Not that it seems to matter, really. With the shirt so close, his dreams are filled with Stiles, so when he wakes up, he isn’t surprised to see his morning wood is hard as iron and as red as it can get.

He can’t wait to get off again. He doesn’t. 

_

A week later, Derek is with such a good mood that not even Stiles barging in at seven in the morning has him do more than scowl. Inside, his wolf tilts its head at the sight of a huge wrapped box that makes Stiles’ balance worse than usual. His heart beats quicker, too, but there is no bitter scent of fear: Excited, then. 

“There you go, dude,” he announces, dropping the box on the table and giving a pleased smile that makes him remember his fantasies from last week in vivid detail. “What are you waiting for? Open it!” 

“If it explodes, I am holding you responsible,” threatens Derek, in an attempt to not jump and rip open the box. 

Stiles snorts, the smile still plastered on his face widening. “I promise it is not, in any way, harmful.” 

Still wary, Derek pops a claw and makes quick work of the wrapping with all the finesse of a two year old at Christmas morning. Inside, there truly isn’t anything harmful, or even a sex toy. 

Inside, there is a fawn plushy with ice skates on its shaky legs.

He raises his eyebrow. The comment about his grace was made months ago, and it surprises him that it stuck with Stiles instead of all the other comments. 

“You did not seem to like the forget-me-nots,” he explains, and Derek thanks his complexion for hiding the blush that is threatening to form, “So I got you this. You can hug it when you miss me, and no one will know.” 

Rolling his eyes at the comment, Derek inspects the stuffed animal more carefully. There is no price tag, for starters, and the skates are knitted in a simple pattern and can be removed easily, a small drop of blood staining the white where Stiles most likely stuck the knitting needle in his finger. 

The amount of dedication went into it is amazing, and the alpha hopes he does not have a cheesy smile on his face. 

Judging by the smirk in the younger man’s face, however, Derek assumes he does. 

“That is really sweet of you,” he begins. “I am sure Peter will have lots of fun with it on full moons. You know he’s a biter.”

Just like that, Stiles pales to ghost-like levels. Granted, the thought of Peter biting something as a substitute for someone would make him just as stressed, were the situations reversed.

It is his turn to smirk.

“Thought so. Now, get out of my flat through the door before I make you go through the window.” 

It seems like a good way to finish a conversation. Besides, it is not like Stiles will not pop unannounced within the week. 

Eventually, Derek learns that he is right on the first account and wrong on the second. Some idiot at Stanford misspelled Stiles’ name in the school’s official documents and it snowballed to the point he has to head south, and since it is so close to the start date, he simply packs his things after a quick goodbye from Scott.

It hurts more than it should, to the point inhaling Stiles’ scent from his shirt is the only way he gets to fall asleep, trying not to feel as ridiculous as he does for doing so. 

_

Life goes on, and before Derek knows it, September starts and the pack members have their first day at university. By the end of the month, they are all settled, in love with dorm life and someone new. 

The meetings are made by Skype every Sunday, and the only occasion they meet is for their monthly runs during full moons. Calls from Lydia, Jackson and Stiles are uncommon, but Scott always passes along direct messages from Stiles and indirect ones he gets from Allison, who gets them from Lydia (if Chris Argent bugged her phone, Derek would not be surprised). 

One day, however, his phone buzzes with the Star Wars theme, and Derek cannot bring himself to be angry over the call being after midnight. He knows from experience that Stiles does not keep normal hours, and a call in a bad time is better than no call at all. 

The moment Derek hits talk, the sound of a full blown party reaches his ears at such volume he has to remove the phone from his ear. It seems that not even super selective universities have students that do not party hard. 

“What is it?” he grunts, and repeats the question when there is no answer. After a few seconds, the music dims and he can identify faint sounds of someone having sex. Bedroom, most likely. 

“Hey, Derek!” Stiles shouts, voice as hyper as ever if a bit slurry. “Mind giving me a ride? I don’t think I’m in a right state to drive Roscoe. But hey, guess who I nailed? Aaron! Who knew church members could be so kinky?”

Derek nearly chokes. When he can finally say something, all that comes out is: “Nobody is in a right state to drive Roscoe. That’s a death trap waiting to happen.” 

A breath is held, and no sound comes from Stiles. “Who are you? I called Derek Hampton.”

“No,” Derek replies, words muffled because of newly present fangs. “This is Derek Hale.” 

“Oh, shit! Sorry, dude. Wrong Derek.” He hangs up before the werewolf even has a chance to tell Stiles not to call him dude. 

Back in bed, his wolf argues about how maiming that Derek Hampton would not be such a bad thing, and how they could go in and out without making anyone notice their presence. Worst thing is, he finds himself agreeing. 

Fuck, he really needs some sleep. So he does the only thing he can think of: He grabs Stiles’ shirt, and falls into the world of dreams thinking about how right their scents feel, mixed together. 

-

It is early October when Derek comes home from grocery shopping (he selects his ingredients, thank you very much) to find Peter lazing about with Stiles’ stuffed fawn being tossed from one hand to the other. 

“Really, Derek?” he drawls, one of his trademark smirks gracing his face. “I thought you had moved on from teddy bears at nine. Am I wrong?” 

If glares could kill, Peter would be nothing more than dust on the ground. 

“What a pretty gift. It does resemble Stiles a lot, so I can see why you keep it around.”

He does not, actually. The last time he saw the thing, it was carefully hidden in the back of his closet away from harm and prying eyes. Regardless of where it is, however, it is Derek’s, and the urge to remove Peter’s filthy hands (with his teeth) away from Stiles’ goodbye gift is strong. 

His uncle, likely just to rile him up, takes a sniff, and Derek’s claws and fangs make a presence along with a roar that comes from deep within his chest. He’s heard the sound before, but always from an outsider perspective: His mother, every time he and his sisters refused to obey, and Laura, after, more times than necessary, just to assert herself as the leader of their pack of two. 

That’s an alpha’s roar. 

And he used it to protect a plushy. 

Peter drops the deer, looking as shocked as Derek feels. He leaves soon after, but not before making a comment about how much like a cub it makes the alpha sound. 

As soon as the front door closes and he can hear no more steps, Derek walks to the stuffed animal, taking it to place it somewhere he can keep track of all times. The best place he can think of is by his bed, where he stays his entire free time. 

The way the light from the window hits it gives the fawn a more golden look, and its brown eyes reflect the sun in an interesting manner, making it lighter.   
Derek will grant it to his uncle, that deer does look a bit like Stiles. 

_

During his life, Derek has learned that nothing, good or bad, lasts forever. It can be huge things, like his family and the grief that follows, or small ones like the milk in the fridge and the last piece of the Lindt he bought.

This should qualify as a tiny thing. Small, at best, but the reaction that follows has a much bigger magnitude. Because Stiles’ shirt, his comfort ever since the teenager with ADHD left, the shirt that has provided him the best orgasms since he ran out of fantasies of Stiles skinny dipping. That shirt? It does not smell like Stiles anymore. 

His scent has faded to the point not even his alpha werewolf’s noise can pick it. It fully smells like Derek now, of his home and bed and body fluids. 

He’s let a loud, needy wine before he can stop himself. His wolf scratches for the surface, but not even the change helps to soothe it. Being shifted, however, amplifies all his senses, and Derek makes a beeline for the stupid deer with its stupid skates. 

It feels like heaven, so much Stiles-ness in it he can feel his cock hardening in his pants at a speed Derek would not think possible until it does. 

Which, no. That is a stuffed toy, and somehow it feels more wrong than touching himself with Stiles’ shirt as company. So he does the only thing he can: Grabbing the base of his dick, Derek squeezes hard enough that pleasure turns into enough pain to make his member deflate. 

Derek will not cave. As it his, he cannot lower his standards any more. 

It takes him five minutes to decide that no one cares about standards and to find his nearly empty lube and a dildo that looks more or less like Derek pictures Stiles’ dick to be like: Not as long as some he’s had in the past, but thick enough that the stretch will burn pleasantly the entire time it is in.

His preparations are hurried and less careful than it should be to make it an entirely good experience, fingers scissoring his entrance before Derek is relaxed enough, and his third stretching it in a not so comfortable manner. It does nothing to help his arousal; in fact, he throbs hotter at the thought of long fingers entering him surely, but still somewhat clumsily.

The dildo feels better than Derek thought, when buying it. Six inches long, it touches all the right places, making Derek’s breaths turn into pants, eyelids only half open when its silicone head brushes against his prostate every other thrust while Derek’s left hand travels between his cock to his nipples, twisting and pinching them until they are puffed, then returning to his member to stroke it into the brink of coming, only to back away and provide no more stimuli other than the dildo’s. 

Still, pre-come appears in short bursts every time a thrust reaches his sweet bundle of nerves and it does not take long for him to stop trying to make it last and simply angle himself in order that each movement nearly makes him pass out. 

His flush extends from his face to his entire body in short time. His bad history with relationships means he hasn’t got laid in quite some time, and even wanking is difficult when Derek has visitors with sharp noses coming and going every day. 

There’s no need for fantasies, here. The fawn reminds him too much of Stiles, and if Derek closes his eyes, he can nearly picture the musky smell of the teen’s come.   
He had mentioned doing something kinky, in the bloody call meant for Derek Hampton. How kinky was he? Would Stiles bind him, if he asked? Would he suck Derek until he had nothing left, only to snowball it back?

What would their kiss feel like, with each other’s spunk still lingering in their mouths? 

Derek comes with a shout, balls drawing painfully at the explosive release. The first spurt has enough force in it to hit him in the chin, the subsequent ones painting his chest white with an obscene amount in it, until he is shaking and too sensitive to keep the dildo inside. 

Carefully, he wipes the mess on his chin with his index finger. When tasting it, all it takes is the thought of Stiles being the one feeding him his come to make his werewolf refractory period kick in. 

Derek looks at the stuffed animal, and it seems to look back. 

“Fuck it,” he announces to no one, and grabs tissues for a quick clean before re starting the process with attention to every single nuance of Stiles’ smell that emanates from the deer. 

_

In Stanford, Stiles smiles at the stuffed wolf cub he had bought the month before. Like the deer plushy, he has not spent a single night in the dorm apart from it and holding the cub extra close every time he jacks off. 

Hopefully, it will stink of him not long from now. He might even be able to get a third one ready before Christmas. 

Grabbing his phone, he finds the Pack’s message group and types, with a Satan emoticon at the end: “Hope you haven’t all forgotten me. Guess who is heading over for midterm break?”

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations, you've made it to the end! 
> 
> Thank you for reading this. Feel free to drop a comment. I accept criticism of all kinds, especially those than can pinpoint where I need to work the most. 
> 
> I wish you all a very smutty Christmas!


End file.
